Texts Gone Wrong (Or Right?)
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: In the library, Sherlock Holmes receives a text. That's how he has his first talk with the campus heartthrob John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**Bored! Bored! Bored!**

**A little cracky, so please be a little tolerant of certain impossibilities.**

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><p><strong>Sherlock<strong>

_**Somebody else**_

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><p>Sherlock was halfway through finding an alternative derivation of the Clausius–Clapeyron equation when he received a text. At the noise of a wanton moan as Sherlock's text alert (somebody played a prank, he had told his mother), the librarian looked past the end of her nose and through her thickset glasses that made her look like an owl. She furiously pointed to the sign saying "No Porn in the library".<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if people came to watch porn in the library.

And then he recalled a guy who wanked off to anatomy texts on the female reproductory system. How could such people exist?

Sherlock turned his phone to silent and checked the text.

_**Hi**_

Sherlock frowned at that. Since when did people say 'hi' to him, even if he wasn't there in front of them to make them shit their pants?

He typed back. **Who's this?**

The reply was almost after Sherlock had given up on the person on the other side of the phone, _**Seb.**_

_**Dnt tl me tht u cant recgnse me :(**_

God, the nerve of such people. Did they not have autocorrect, just so that their spelling could be a little more decent?

**Sorry I don't know any Seb**

This time, the reply was almost instantaneous, as if Seb had been typing all the time since Sherlock had begun to type.

_**Frgt ur frnds frm Edinbrg ya?**_

Sherlock was tempted to reply back that one question mark was enough to send the meaning across, but didn't do so.

_**Wht**_

_**Wait ur Jim right**_

**I've never heard your name.**

**No I'm not**

Sherlock put his phone back as the librarian showed him another sign, "No phones in the library."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to where she had been playing Candy Crush Saga on her phone, "Yes ma'am."

He usually didn't have his phone on silent. At any rate, he wasn't used to people calling or texting him. Mycroft had specific hours. And he had put Mummy's number on call divert so that she would bother Mycroft instead. So much for people talking on the phone.

_**Bt ur numbr in my phn is saved as jim**_

Sherlock sighed. He knew it. The retailer had given him an old number since it was Sherlock's first phone. An old used number. Why would he do that, when clearly he could profit more by giving him a new number and. . . of course, the old SIM costed more and he wouldn't have to pay the company that amount. Stupid!

**I got this number today, So there's no chance you could've got it saved in your mobile.**

_**Mayb my frnd changed hius number and u gt his number**_

Yes, what a genius! Did it really take him that long to figure it out? Now he was going to have to talk as well as text with idiots? He hadn't signed up for this when he decided Cambridge for himself!

**Maybe.** He wanted to add the further corrections but restrained himself. **So long.**

_**If u dnt mind may i know who u r**_

Yes I mind, thank you very much, because you're not letting me study the properties of real gases. **My name is nobody. And I don't mind.**

_**Lol**_

_**Sorry btw**_

**It's alright  
><strong>

_**Fr disturbing**_

Sherlock stared at the screen of his phone. It sounded like it was alright for disturbing. Sherlock decided to clarify that.

**Just to be clear, it's not alright for disturbing.**

_**Wht**_

Sherlock sighed. _What_ was only a four-letter word. ONLY A GODDAMNED FOUR-LETTER WORD!

**Never** **mind.**

And the librarian swooped in like the barn owl she was and snatched away Sherlock's phone in her talon-like nails. Sherlock slumped against the chair. That could've gone better. Well done.

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><p><strong><em>Long time no see.<em>**

Sherlock peered at his phone. Had someone put up his number at a friendship website as a joke. Well, boo hoo to them.

**My thoughts precisely. Who're you?  
><strong>

_**What?**_

At least this one was better than the last Seb or somebody, if not for a limited intelligence. **Who's this?**

_**S dis jim?**_

Sherlock took his words back. No better than the last one. He decided to make himself clear.

**No, this is not Jim. I've had another friend of his contact me and I told them that I'm not**

_**Oh**_

_**Actly dis ws hisno**_

Like he needed to be told. At least this one was not a tubelight like the last one.

_**No.**_

_**Maybe hes chngd it**_

Great, they could tell themselves that without texts, couldn't they? Sherlock wasn't interested. Not in the slightest.

_**He has settld smwhr else nw**_

_**Cn u tl e tht frnd name**_

Sherlock decided to indulge this person. **Seb or something.**

**I really don't know any Jim.**

**Please inform that to all your friends.**

_**Oh.**_

Sherlock waited for the reassurance that she would tell it to all her friends, but none came.

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><p><strong><em>Hello. :D<em>**

Sherlock decided to ignore it.

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><p><em><strong>Hi. . . its Molly<strong>_

Sherlock gave such a start that the more effective itching powder he had been creating slipped from his fingers and the test tube crashed on his feet. He resisted the urge to scratch his feet, knowing that it would be ten minutes and the effect would subdue. But God, it was hard. Resisting the allure of scratching itches, very, _very_ hard.

So hard.

**I don't know ant Molly**

Sherlock cursed himself. This itching business was making him lose his mind. He hated this Jim guy.

**Any Molly_. _**He added.

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><p><em><strong>Remember me?<strong>_

**No.**

**Who the hell are you?**

_**Jeff Hope**_

_**From London**_

Sherlock decided to play a game, the sort that should break a friend's heart._**Hey**_

**No I don't remember you**

_**Hey thats wierd. . . arent you Jim Moriarty nd u hav a boyfrnd in Cmbridge?**_

**No**

_**Oh... i a sorry.. when jim was ther4e in london he had give me this no. and i saved it as jim only.. so whe i sow this no. thought it was him.**_

Right. He "sow"ed his number. Fantastic. He could only imagine the appalling spelling Jim would have.

**_Actually jim rites a lot like you. posh and all. sorry_**

*Facepalm* Sherlock took his words back.

**Seems like he's got a hell lot of friends. **Sherlock replied with some bitterness. Now people were texting him only because of some random guy.

**Some of the others also texted me**

_**Trust me... i havent seen him forget talking also**_

Apart from appalling spelling, this person had no sense of grammar.

_**So whats your good name?**_

Sherlock decided to ignore the second text. **Then how come you have his number? Some sort of random messenger thing?**

As if pubs weren't enough for people to mingle, the app Incs also had to launch the ones where you could make friends online. What was wrong with the world?

**_he gve me this no. and i only noticed it sme 1 month back_**

**Oh right.  
><strong>

_**I'm in dublin now. . . thats what reminded me of him**_

_**So you know anything where he can be or something**_

Giving in to the frustration finally, Sherlock punched the words in. How was _he _supposed to know where the previous owner of his phone number was?

**I don't know any Jim Moriarty.. I just got this number and now I'm spending quite a lot of time telling his friends that I'm not their friend.  
><strong>

It must have been obvious how irritated Sherlock was because the guy let out a quick cut-off response.

**_Really sorry for the inconvenience caused!_**

Sherlock softened and retreated to his severed limb experiment. It was fortunate that Cambridge didn't have dorm rooms. **Alright.**

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><p><em><strong>Hey<strong>_

This was really going to be the last of it. Sherlock had been sleeping during his shower before his last class when the frustrating, impossible text arrived. This was going to be the last of Jim Moriarty's friends. Fuck, he had even memorized his name.

**Dunno you**

**_You forgot ur sweetheart so fast? Within a year  
><em>**

**Yes**

_**:D :D :D**_

**Not joking  
><strong>

_**No guesses?**_

**You must be younger than me, judging by the way you're talking.  
><strong>

**Or texting**

_**Jim!**_

_**Its me, John!**_

_**What's wrong, love?**_

**My name is not Jim and I'm not your love**

_**Oh** _**shit?**

Seriously? Oh shit?

Question mark? Was this person really doubting himself that he couldn't say 'oh shit' without Sherlock's permission?

_**Ok i'm so sorry!**_

_**I think his number is changed**_

What a deduction!

**_I'm really sory_**

**It's alright.**

It wasn't, but Sherlock had been reliably informed that saying that fell along the lines of rude.

_**Do you know any1 named Jim Moriarty?**_

**No but I know his friends  
><strong>

_**Were r u frm?**_

Sherlock sighed. **Puerto Rican**

_**How come u knw his frinds?**_

**Just like I know you  
><strong>

_**ok ok**_

_**I'm sorry**_

**It's cool  
><strong>

_**I'l delete his number**_

_**I think his number has changed**_

**Yes**

_**:)**_

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><p>Sherlock used the number to locate this John person because he was the only one out of Molly, Seb and Jeff (Gosh, he had already learned the names of Jim's friends, utterly useless data) who could be found within a one mile radius. Plus, this John person was this Jim person's boyfriend so it would be more effective contacting him than his friends. He was found waiting outside the library, as Sherlock's self-designed tracking system told him. He was going to put an end to this. He had tried John's number, but it had come across as switched off.<p>

When Sherlock arrived in front of the department library, there was one lone blond man standing outside, perhaps waiting for someone.

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

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><p><strong>Might continue this. . . Review? According to response, I'll let this stay a one shot or I'll continue this into a short story with less than ten chapters :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Wanted to update If I Could Only, but this came out**

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><p>Sherlock knew who the blond guy was. Of course he bloody knew.<p>

John Watson. Who didn't know him? Who didn't know _John Watson _in the entire campus?

At the first sight of John Watson, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, his mouth open like a goldfish, and hastily made into the urinal before John could spot him at all. He shut the door of the urinal behind him with an audible thud and for the first time since discovering the blond man in front of the library, he pressed his index and middle finger to the his carotid and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything, of searching for his latest timetable in the mess on the bed, of reminding Mycroft to get some of his stuff from home, of everything but John bloody Watson and his blue eyes and that damned smile.

Sherlock opened his eyes, slumped against the tiles and nails trying to dig into them. That had been a close shave. He retrieved his phone. It had brought him nothing but bad luck. Bad, _bad _luck. He had paid more for the old number and it didn't have voicemail (and what phone did _not _have voicemail in this tech-era, God!) and now he inadvertently had John Watson's number and his body protested against deleting it.

He pressed the delete button. Thankfully, the sky did not fall on him. A part of him said that he was stupid to have done so. John's number, the one precious link, the one thing that would distinguish him from all others who did not have John Watson's number and would bring him a step closer to even talking to John.

He chucked those useless thoughts away. Better to stay away from John Watson and everything that was him. All these years of life he had resisted getting close to a person, or even entertain the hope of getting close to someone having learnt the hard way that he wasn't the sort of person people wanted to get to know. He wasn't going to stop now. Wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

He smoothed down his shirt, fixed his hair so that he didn't look like he had been fucked thoroughly. Opened the door, and came face to face with John Watson.

Sherlock's body froze, his mind being the perpetrator. He had never seen John this close to him, look up at him with those intolerable blue eyes at that proximity.

"John Watson?" Sherlock enquired, grateful to hear his voice much steadier than his heart.

"Um, yeah?" John nodded. Sherlock could see that he was bracing for an attack. Even though he wasn't the most likeable person in there, he was too infamous and from John's demeanour, it wasn't hard to understand that even John knew his reputation.

"First thing," Sherlock spoke quickly, so that he didn't have to spend much time looking like an utter fool to him, "I do not know any Jim Moriarty. His friends have been bothering me a lot. Kindly inform them the same."

"Okay," John's voice was prompting, and Sherlock's mind was already preparing ways to drag John into the urinal and make him feel pleasure in the purest of ways.

"Second thing," Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, "get out of my way."

John looked at him confusedly, maybe a little indignantly at having formed the request so poorly and so rudely. He didn't understand that if Sherlock had put it in any other way, he'd have made an absolute sodding fool of himself in front of John Watson.

Wordlessly, but fuming, John moved to acquiesce. Sherlock resisted a glance behind him, a last one before John disappeared, after which he mentally slapped himself and made his way towards his dorms. He wasn't in a mood to attend his classes anymore.

Once the door was shut securely behind him and the world cut off from the privacy of his room, Sherlock collapsed on his bed and absentmindedly cupped the place between his legs. He stared up at the ceiling. Distantly, his phone rang somewhere, but he didn't care. Realising that he was touching himself again, he stopped and gripped the edges of his bed. He knew that he was safe now, that there was no power in the world which could make John Watson even suspect what Sherlock thought of him and now he was free to think as much about him as he could, but he was well above fooling himself like ordinary people did. John wasn't interested in him in the slightest. Would never be. If he dared go any further than where he was now, he'd end up . . . doing something stupid like. . . blurting everything out in front of John.

And so, he was very careful of what he revealed of himself.

John Watson was someone every girl in the campus talked about, whether Humanities or IR or Science or Engineering or Medicine or anything. Tanned golden, lips red, not very full, but they were pretty for a boy's. He was shorter than most men, 5'6 perhaps. He was sometimes picked at for his short height, but he had smooth comebacks ready. He was, well. . . not on the healthy side, but not thin as a lath too. He was slim, perhaps, yes that's what one could call him. Sherlock didn't prefer guys too slim or too healthy. There was a range, and John was just on the edge of it, thankfully. He had a couple of depressions on his face, small holes and sometimes acne that he was quite self-conscious about. He had less facial hair than average, except for a smart trim of beard on his chin that he kept stroking absentmindedly, drawing Sherlock's attention to it sometimes, even if he liked John clean-shaven. There was a youthful glow to his face, made him look lovely when he laughed. When he laughed, he scrunched up his whole face. His shoulders used to shake.

Sherlock stopped at that point. Not helping.

Not that there weren't studs in Cambridge. But John, he was different. There was _something _about him. The way he talked, smiled, it did something to Sherlock. There was a self-assuredness to him. There was an intensity to his gaze. He was soft and nice, the sort of guy who, if he found a topless girl in the backseat of his car, would drive her back to her house and bide her a nice and literal 'goodnight'. He was sure-footed, and he didn't have any problem making friends. Girls loved him, and regretfully, he loved girls back.

But the texts had revealed that John had a boyfriend. John was bisexual, perhaps. Sherlock felt like he had a chance, but that had been killed by this damned Jim person.

John and he used to share the molecular cell biology 2201 course last year. That was where he had first seen John. He had been wary of him from the first day, and the habit of keeping John at arm's length hadn't developed properly yet. Unlike other people, Sherlock had to make himself think that he could not have John close to him and he had to pretend to be indifferent to him, even rude on some occasions. He wasn't sure if John even remembered that he took a class with him last year, Sherlock thought with a pang.

Sherlock knew he was a mad guy, but John Watson, he made Sherlock take another course as same as his: Anatomy 101. And then Physiology 304. Liked watching John from a distance. In those moments when he allowed himself to dream a bit, he wondered how it would be, being near John, having John notice his presence. Maybe John would be the one to find him moderately likeable, tolerable. Maybe John would make him laugh, just a bit. Maybe John would let him touch him a bit.

Only this year, Sherlock's senses had kicked in when he realised that he was never going to have John Watson. Sherlock had never really talked to John Watson, let alone have him. Their conversation in the urinal (God, that sounded so pathetic) was effectively the only one Sherlock had had with John so far. And so, this term, Sherlock, out of his utter need, had kept his one-sided interactions with John Watson only till inorganic chemistry lab, which was yet to start.

His phone rang again. His brain told him that it might be John, that John wanted him back all along, and he only played hard to get. And now that John had Sherlock's number, they'd converse properly via texts.

He knew how wrong he was.

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><p>The inorganic lab was the only thing Sherlock was looking forward to that Michaelmas term. Books weren't everything that Sherlock relied on. World was a more important place, and where theoretical knowledge was, well, theoretical, practical knowledge was something Sherlock was keen to learn about.<p>

Plus, this was the class he'd see John Watson in, almost a week after that texting incident. They had now stopped, and Sherlock fantasised that John had taken care of his little request and told his friends. Perhaps found his boyfriend too.

He had inorganic lab on Tuesdays and Fridays, 2:30 to 5:30. Six hours of John per week, if at a distance. That's all Sherlock allowed himself now. For John was dangerous. One slip, and John would infest him like cancer, tainting his orderly thoughts and destroy years of imperviousness in Sherlock. That urinal incident (or at least Sherlock regarded it as an incident) had been a slip, and it had been hours till Sherlock had managed to get rid of John's thoughts.

When he arrived, he already found John with his signature group of friends, secret admirers. Sherlock observed him from a distance. He allowed himself to sometimes think that John did not like so many people around him, for many of them tried to talk to him, and they all ended up talking within themselves. Sherlock liked thinking that John was alone like him, that John _needed_someone who could understand his loneliness and give him space and. . .

A sharp smack against a desk brought Sherlock back to real world. Sherlock stopped slouching against the counter table. He always sat at the front, seeing as that would not allow him an unobstructed view of John every time.

"Okay, I'm passing the groups for labs, three on a table, alright?" the instructor said. "Those without their lab coats and eye protection, back of the lab please!" This elicited a loud orchestra of groans and "fuck off" from many of them. Sherlock turned to look whether John had his. Surprisingly, he did.

The lab instructor flinched when he realised that Sherlock would be taking the sheet first. Sherlock could help but smirk at that. That was the effect he liked having on people, not the other way around. John Watson, being that one person, was to be kept away at a safe distance at every time. Sherlock would be safe from him, and he would be safe for Sherlock. Good for both of them.

His heart gave a twinge at that. He usually had what he wanted but. . . this. . . he shouldn't want. He couldn't want this.

He looked down at the paper with the group numbers. He wrote down his roll number and looked around, who to pass it to. John was not at a great distance away, five people away, in fact, given that most of them were still grumbling over their first lab gone to waste and were making their way to the back of the lab. If Sherlock passed it in John's direction, it would mean that John would have the table next to him. If he passed it the other way. . . that would be better, in every way. He'd be safe, he'd be far away from the danger that was John Watson.

No good would come out of it. John had a boyfriend who he was terribly dedicated to, if going by the way he politely rejected the advances that girls made on him. John wouldn't like him, John had a boyfriend, John had a boyfriend, John wouldn't like him.

He signed against his name, and passed it in John's direction, keeping his face stoically ahead. When he glanced at John, he could see the man gazing at the paper a bit too longer than other people had.

His phone buzzed.

**_Hi Jim :) :) :) 3 ~ xxxxxxx_**

Right at cue, it reminded him that he had been able to talk to John only because a bunch of people thought Jim—John's boyfriend, the red flags in his mind reminded him again—was the British equivalent of Bruno Mars. He looked around for the paper, instantly regretting his impulsive decision get the better of him. He glanced at John, who was imperturbable and oblivious to all the inner workings of Sherlock's mind.

The best he could hope for was that he didn't make himself out a fool, now that he had the slightest chance.

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><p><strong>Did you really think that there was going to be no angst? Ha ha ha, smiles she like the devil.<strong>


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